


stranger danger!

by andnowforyaya



Category: NCT (Band), SHINee, SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Memory Alteration, Non-Linear Narrative, Smoking, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26452819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: Taemin, performing on stage with his band, catches the eye of a stranger at the bar.But the thing is, this stranger doesn't feel like a stranger to Taemin.
Relationships: Lee Taemin/Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten
Comments: 67
Kudos: 117





	1. Taemin

**Author's Note:**

> listen to [strangers](https://open.spotify.com/track/1ccGx6woMIsQaAwXFa81xc) by taemin

There’s a pretty boy with eyes that glint with the reflection of the lights from the stage sitting at the bar who won’t stop staring at Taemin. 

Granted, Taemin is on stage, guitar heavy in his hands, lips just barely kissing the netted wire of the microphone as he croons into it, so it makes perfectly good sense why the boy is looking in Taemin’s direction. Taemin’s in the spotlight, after all. 

It’s just that he’s _staring_ and every time Taemin looks away to give some girl or guy a wink in the crush of bodies closest to the stage, he’s pulled back to that hypnotic stare across an ocean of blurry, shadowy faces like iron dust to a magnet. 

Wildly, mid-song, Taemin thinks he shouldn’t even be able to see the boy, not really, not with the lights bright and hot in his face and the bar stretched across the side wall where he sits nestled in shadow, but he is so clear and vivid, skin shimmering and hair glossy like the shiny cover of a new, mint magazine that Taemin almost wants to reach out and pluck him from his shelf. Wrap him in plastic and take him home. 

Taemin sees blond hair, one side tucked behind his ear studded with jewels. Nails painted dark, lips the color of ripe cherries. He’s wearing a collar with spikes on it, like a dog’s. The black tank he’s wearing is so tight across his chest it looks painted on, and he holds the stem of a martini glass daintily between his fingers, sipping delicately at the drink with fluttering eyelashes. 

The stranger at the bar smirks when they make eye contact, and the bottom falls out of Taemin’s stomach. 

High-pitched feedback squeals loudly from the amp. Taemin’s fingers stumble over the fret board, messing up the chord progression into his guitar solo so badly that he winces and growls into the mic. He recovers quickly, though, the band's long hours of practice coming through. Luckily Jongin is quick on the uptake and covers him smoothly with a sick improvised bass solo, and he only glares at him a little bit when Taemin’s voice cracks huskily at the start of the next verse. 

Taemin ends the song panting and buzzing with adrenaline, the last notes ringing in his ears, the raucous applause and cheers from the audience fading into white noise.

He remembers to smile. To thank his band. Jongin on bass, Mark on drums, Baekhyun on the keyboard. And then with a flourish, the lights go out, signaling the end of their set. The bar glows softly in the distance, the shelves of bottles along the mirrored wall seeming to float in the relative darkness. The DJ kicks up the music over the sound system to fill the space in between sets.

“Hey,” Jongin says as he unplugs his bass from the amp on stage. “So, what happened to you with the last song?”

“Hey,” Taemin says distractedly. “Hold this. Be right back.” He lifts the guitar strap from around his shoulders and hands Jongin his guitar by the neck. Jongin, bless him, takes it before it can slip from Taemin’s fingers with only an aborted _“ what the—!”_ before Taemin leaps from the stage in the direction of the bar.

He lands heavily in his boots but lets his knees absorb the shock, and when he looks over at the bar again the boy is waving down the bartender, gesturing for the bill by miming signing a check in the air. A very unfamiliar kind of panic surges in his veins.

“Wait!” Taemin calls out. Half a dozen people who were hanging around near the stage during his band’s set turn at his voice, pointing fingers at chests, looks of surprise on their faces. 

“No, not you,” Taemin snaps impatiently, pushing his way past the barrier of bodies. He has to twist away from a small hand that makes its way to his waist, the girl attached to said hand pouting at him. She looks familiar. She must have come to their other shows, too. “Uh, thanks for coming!” he tosses over his shoulder as he throws out his elbows and forces his way through the crowd.

It’s like being buffeted about in a wild, tumultuous sea. Not that Taemin has ever swam far enough out into the ocean where his feet don’t touch the sand, and definitely not without his floaties around his arms, but this is what he imagines the moments right before drowning might feel like: wave after wave crashing over him in the form of tall bodies obscuring his view, each step seeming to take him further from shore. 

When finally he reaches the bar, all the reward for his effort is an empty stool and a wet receipt on the counter with the laziest signature he’s ever seen on the dotted line. It’s a cross. Pretty Boy’s signature is a cross.

He looks around wildly for another sign of him and spots a bright blond head near the exit. His pulse skips in his throat. He chases after him and steps out into the cold, nodding to the bouncer. “Did you see…?”

“Around the corner,” the bouncer grunts, pointing with his thumb, and Taemin hops to it, tripping down the sidewalk.

“Wait, how did you know—?” he starts, but the bouncer is patting down a waifish-looking man and pays him no mind. Taemin stumbles down the block, his breath misting in front of him, and belatedly remembers his leather jacket he’d left behind, draped over an amp. He wishes he’d thought to bring it with him. It would have been really cool of him to offer his jacket to Pretty Boy…

Hugging his arms around his middle, his skin pebbles in the cold. 

The night is quiet and still just steps away from the entrance to the bar. Taemin looks up at the sky as he wanders, wishing for a moment without clouds and light pollution so that he could see the stars.

He yelps, his breath leaving him suddenly when he’s yanked into an alleyway by his arm and tossed against the side of a building. Instinctively, Taemin throws his hands up in front of his face and cowers behind them, squeezing his eyes shut as though this will make his attacker disappear. 

Self-preservation skills: probably fine.

“Don’t hurt me, please! I have no money but I can get you some! My friend Baekhyun is rich! Like, he’s loaded! I can get you whatever you want!”

Integrity and dignity: could be better.

A pause. Taemin's throat tightens with anticipation.

Then: “Whatever I want?” 

The voice is not what Taemin expected. High and soft, smooth as melted chocolate. Hearing it sends a pleasant tingle down his spine. He allows his eyes to open slowly and comes face to face with Pretty Boy, who is even better looking up close.

Like, he’s radiant. Like his skin is dusted with gold, like his eyes are full of the stars Taemin can’t see in the sky. The corners of his lips are curled slightly in an amused smile at Taemin’s expense. His hand at Taemin’s shoulder, effortlessly pinning him to the wall, is cold as ice.

Taemin stares with his mouth hanging open dumbly as he steps closer, pressing their chests together. “Oh my god,” Taemin whispers, “You’re like, a serial killer, aren’t you?”

“You can keep your eyes closed, darling,” Pretty Boy murmurs, and curiously, Taemin feels compelled to obey. He closes his eyes, sighing, calm and relaxed now in this stranger’s arms even though in the back of his mind he’s fairly sure he’s about to die. Maybe he’s made his peace with it already. “You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

.

Taemin blinks and he’s back inside the venue with a twinge in his neck. He cracks it with clenched teeth, hissing at the satisfying release of tension, and swirls his gaze around until he spots his bandmates at the bar nursing cold beers and, in Baekhyun’s case, what looks to be a vodka cranberry. 

“Taemin,” Jongin nods when he notices Taemin approaching. “Where’d you run off to? You left us with all the packing. Again.”

“Um, smokes,” Taemin offers as the fog of confusion in his mind clears. Yes, he was outside smoking. He had really craved a cigarette after his slip up on stage. Wait, why had he slipped up on stage? He remembers the feeling of sweat as it trickled down the side of his neck, under the fabric of his shirt and down his chest, down the small of his back. He remembers dizzying heat.

“You left your jacket,” Jongin deadpans, tossing it to him. Taemin catches it with a grunt. The solid edge of his box of cigarettes grazes his forearm. “You went for a smoke but didn’t bring your cigarettes with you?”

“I happen to be very charming and I bummed one off a stranger!” Taemin says, bristling, defensive. 

He mentally walks back to the curb outside the venue in an effort to jog his memory and pictures the stranger easily—blond hair, pretty, a little shorter than Taemin. Painted nails and red lips. Spiked, dog-collar necklace. He frowns. He doesn’t remember a name.

The more he tries to recall the events of the past couple of minutes, the less bothered he is with the hazy details that keep getting hazier. He has the feeling he should care more than he currently does about forgetting something that happened just moments ago, but then the feeling is gone and he can’t get it back. He’s here and their instruments are packed and the band after them are in the middle of their first song.

“Sure, Taemin.” 

Beside Jongin, Mark chuckles awkwardly and shares a significant look with him, a look Taemin doesn’t have the concentration, will, or energy to decipher right now. They turn to each other, effectively shutting him out, and it stings. Taemin's frown turns petulant.

Baekhyun, on Mark’s other side, reaches behind their backs and drags Taemin to stand beside him, looping his arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry about them,” Baekhyun says. “Let’s just get you a drink. You look like you need one. What are you having?”

Taemin feels a bit wobbly on his legs, like he’s just run a long distance, or like he’s just had his blood drawn and he should be lying down drinking apple juice and eating cookies. Grateful for the reprieve from Jongin and Mark’s scrutiny, he leans into Baekhyun and asks sweetly, “Are you paying?”

.


	2. Ten

The first time Ten drinks from Taemin, it’s a full moon and all of his werewolf roommates are out on a pack camping trip and the 24-hour convenience store on the corner has sold out of mango coconut water. He stares at the empty shelf in the big drink fridge like it’s a hole in his gut.

It’s 2AM. He’s desperate. He’s stupidly forgotten to replenish his coconut water supply this week, and Taeyong isn’t going to be bringing blood bags from the hospital until Tuesday after his long shift, and on top of that, Ten’s alone in the convenience store where the bright fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and the electric current running through them buzzes in his ears. His nail beds ache and itch.

He turns from the forsaken fridge and finds himself facing the crunchy snacks section of the aisles in the store. Potato chips, flavored chips, tortilla chips, cheese puffs, shrimp crackers, pork rinds. He picks up a small bag at random and trudges to the front to pay for them. 

“Rough night?” the cashier asks him, his voice too chipper for Ten to stomach. It’s the regular guy—Keith? Key? Kelly?—who works the overnight shift on the weekends, and he and Ten have struck up some friendly, somewhat-forced banter throughout their few interactions together, but tonight Ten isn’t in the mood. 

Ten nods. He feels like curdled milk.

“I always see you. You don’t sleep much, do you?” He scans the chips quickly and taps at the card reader for Ten to pay. 

“Insomniac,” Ten answers. “Can I get a box of Winston’s, too?”

“You smoke?”

“Only when I can’t sleep,” Ten quips, sending him a tight-lipped, conversation-ending smile. Maybe-Keith nods and gets him a box from behind the counter, taking the hint and shutting his mouth, and instantly Ten feels bad. He’s just so painfully hungry, and he’s taking it out on this poor kid who’s just trying to do his job and be friendly during. “Do you, uh, want to—?” Ten mimes smoking and points at the door.

Maybe-Keith shakes his head, recognizing the olive branch for what it is and grinning. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not due for my break yet. But hey, maybe next time. Hope you’ll be able to sleep after.”

“Here’s hoping,” Ten sighs.

It’s cold out, a crisp autumn night, though Ten can’t really feel the chill. To keep up appearances though, he pulled on a fuzzy black hoodie over his sweats before coming out, and now he pretends to shiver a little as he opens his box of Winston’s under the awning of the convenience store, its lights spilling out across the sidewalk through the large windows. He pats his pockets for his lighter with one hand, bag of chips in the other, slim cigarette in between his lips.

He’s not really a smoker, but the act of inhaling, holding, and breathing out usually does help to calm him and settle him, and it’s hard for him to do that naturally since he also doesn’t need to breathe. 

He needs to eat. 

He needs to eat  _ soon  _ or he’s looking at a repeat of that awful week in October 1979 when he almost took out a whole frat house in his feeding Frenzy. Thankfully he had met Taeyong for the first time at the frat house and Taeyong hadn’t decided to dust him right then and there for his stupidity. Above almost anything else, Ten hates feeling out of control.

With the first inhale, Ten can taste ash coating his tongue and bites back a grimace.  _ Think _ , Ten.

Taking a sip from a live human blood bag is probably his only option at this point. He hates feeding on humans. The experience to him is quite unenjoyable, what with the blood and the squirming and all that. Humans tend to get horny when they’re being sucked dry and Ten  _ does not  _ appreciate being fondled and groped in exchange for a meal. And Suggesting a memory alteration on someone after the whole ordeal usually leaves Ten dizzy and unable to enjoy the natural high he should be basking in after snacking on the elixir of life. 

A couple of glasses of coconut water and a full pint of blood out of a plastic bag just before sunrise gets him through most days, but it hasn’t always been like that. 

Before Taeyong, he’d needed to hunt. 

“Hey, can I bum one?”

Every once in a while, the universe throws Ten a bone. 

He looks at the man before him, a little taller than himself, built slender and solid, muscles visible under the mesh top he’s wearing beneath a leather jacket. There’s glitter smeared over his cheekbones. He smells like dark chocolate: bitter, earthy, sweet. A prominent vein in the column of his neck pulses when he smiles at Ten with the innocence of a baby deer and reaches a hand out as Ten draws the box of Winston’s from his front hoodie pocket, opening it to him.

“Hey, thanks,” the stranger says cheerily. “Got a—?”

Ten flicks his lighter open, and a small flame jumps to life. He watches the stranger put the cigarette to his lips and hunch to line up the tip to the fire. His cheeks hollow when he sucks in and Ten’s brain just sort of goes fuzzy, like an old TV that has lost its signal.

“Did you see the show?”

“The show,” Ten repeats dumbly. The stranger is pretty with his jet black hair and skin that reminds Ten of porcelain. It’s the eyes that get Ten, though. Wide, round, twinkling with naivete. Ten stares into them and can’t look away, his hunger taking over. This stranger has come to him without Ten having to do anything at all. A free meal. 

“Yeah, we just finished playing,” he says, pointing down the street where Ten knows there’s a small bar venue that draws a regular crowd, holding Ten’s stare. Ten shakes his head and remembers to smoke his cigarette. The stranger pouts. “Aw, that’s a shame. We’re pretty good. We’ve got a regular spot with them on Friday nights now. It’s a good deal.”

“For you or for the bar?” Ten asks, grinning.

The stranger flushes and says, “I guess you’ll have to check us out sometime and tell me.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Ten says, “I live right up the street.”

“Oh, really? That’s great.”

“ _ You should come around to see it _ ,” Ten Suggests.

“I should come around to see it,” the stranger responds immediately, blinking dazedly. A dopey smile slowly overtakes his expression. “Yeah, that’d be nice,” he continues dreamily. “I’m Tae—”

“No, wait—”

“—min, by the way,” Taemin finishes. 

Ten sighs. He doesn’t like knowing their names if he can help it, but it isn’t like he can be picky at this point. “Fine, Taemin. Let’s go.”

Taemin follows Ten the short walk back to his apartment building, humming a melody quietly and occasionally glancing up at the night sky and sighing contentedly. Ten looks at him with a twinge of jealousy; he’s never been put under Suggestion himself, but he imagines it to feel nice, like everything in the world is going to turn out fantastic and people are always kind and sunlight doesn’t burn through skin like fire through tissue paper. 

Ten stops in front of his building’s front door and turns to Taemin, who has just completed a little twirl beside him for no reason at all other than he probably wanted to. He thinks he can take Taemin into the bathroom. That way, if he springs a leak or something, it’ll be easier to clean up. And he’ll just have a couple of sips to sate his hunger, Suggest that Taemin forget everything about tonight, and then send the human on his merry way. 

Done properly, he might not even have to tell Lucas when the pack returns tomorrow that he invited a human over to nibble on him! 

“Hey,” Taemin says suddenly. “How do we know each other?”

“We spoke outside of the convenience store,” Ten says, unlocking the door with his key and heading inside. Taemin follows, his boots clicking with each step.

“Oh, yeah,” Taemin murmurs, accepting the non-answer blindly. “I love meeting new people.”

A tiny, sour bubble of guilt forms in Ten’s belly, battling with his hunger. 

Then the bubble pops, and he’s over it. Taemin smells delicious, his scent amplified in the enclosed space, and they’ve just arrived at Ten’s front door.

.

It’s easy getting Taemin into the bathroom and up against the sink. His skin yields like rubber under Ten’s teeth and then suddenly it doesn’t, and Taemin  _ tastes  _ like dark chocolate, slightly bitter and mostly sweet, the smoky remnants of tobacco clinging to his skin adding a rich, heady layer to the experience of  _ drinking  _ him. Ten fits between his thighs nicely, one hand cradled around the base of Taemin’s skull and the other wrapped around his side, kneading the firm muscles Ten discovers under the jacket. 

Taemin’s hands are pressed to the sink counter, knuckles white as his knees tremble around Ten’s thighs and a breathy, pleasured moan tumbles out from his parted lips. His head falls back into Ten’s hand, his neck exposed, his blood hot and vibrant and filling Ten’s mouth.

“Whatever you’re doing feels good,” Taemin mumbles. 

It feels good for Ten, too. The jut of Taemin’s hip is sharp under Ten’s palm where he rubs soothing circles over Taemin’s skin, encouraging him to relax further. Each drop of blood is power and energy in Ten’s dead bones, and the more he drinks the more he wishes he didn’t have to stop. Taemin is being strangely docile, keeping his hands to himself. Ten could savor him like a fine wine.

But then he feels Taemin shift between his legs and bites back a groan. Taemin's aroused. Pretty soon, he’ll be humping Ten like a dog in heat. Or like Lucas in a rut. 

Ten definitely does not want that.

Regretfully and after another couple of clean, long sips from Taemin’s neck, Ten pulls back slightly and licks the two tiny puncture wounds, encouraging them to heal quickly. The skin seals. He swipes his finger over a droplet of blood running down the side of Taemin’s neck to catch it before it can stain his netted shirt.

Ten feels...sated, but not full. He could drink more, but he doesn’t think he should, as the magical dead blood running through his own veins is starting to feel like the inside of a soda can right after the tab has been popped. Fizzing, faintly kinetic. 

He knows he’s ghosting the edge of a Frenzy, and he should stop before instinct fully takes over. Plus, Taemin’s boner keeps digging into his thigh.

Taemin is smiling peacefully at him, head too heavy to keep upright and so he keeps tilting this way and that with the weight of it. Ten holds him by the shoulders to keep him steady. 

“Why are you stopping?” Taemin asks. 

Abruptly, Taemin’s knees give out, and if Ten weren’t already holding him by the shoulders, he would have crashed to the floor. With alarm, Ten realizes he drank a lot more than he had planned, going by the pink flush to his own skin and the fact that Taemin is flopping around like a doll with no stuffing inside.

“Okay, we're fine,” Ten says more to himself than to Taemin, listening closely for Taemin's pulse and finding comfort in the fact that it's still steady and thrumming. He's fine. He catches Taemin under his arms and hauls him up against his chest. “Let’s, uh, sit you down somewhere soft.”

“Keep making out with my neck! That was nice!” Taemin insists, going limp-noodle as though that’ll make it hard for Ten—who can quite literally uproot a tree from the ground, not that Taemin knows—to keep his hold of him. 

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Ten explains calmly.

“Yeah,” Taemin giggles. “It’s all in my dick, now.”

Ten rolls his eyes, dragging Taemin away from the sink and out of the bathroom. “You humans are all the same. I don’t want your dick.”

Taemin gasps with a slightly droopy but shocked expression on his face. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. Did we not agree to this? Oh, wow. I feel like an ass—”

Ten knows it’s the loss of blood combined with the euphoria of Suggestion talking, but still, as he sits Taemin down on the couch in the living room and secures him in place with cushions on either side of him to hold him up, he can’t help but feel that little bubble of guilt simmering in his gut again. Here he is drinking Taemin’s blood and Taemin is worried he’s somehow forced himself into Ten’s apartment and coerced him into doing something he doesn’t want to do. 

“Relax,” Ten says, pushing only a hint of Suggestion into his voice. Taemin visibly slumps, his eyelids closing halfway, as Ten walks toward the kitchen. “It’s fine. I’m just getting you some juice and cookies so you don’t faint when I show you out.”

Taemin’s words all slur together when he asks, “Can’t I stay the night?”

“No,” Ten says from the fridge. He rummages around inside, finding Yangyang’s jug of apple juice behind the bottles of Coke. On the counter, Taeyong keeps the cookie jar filled with cookies because “growing wolves need easily accessible treats” so Ten reaches inside and wonders what he’ll pull out tonight. His face twists when he sees oatmeal raisin. 

Oatmeal raisin can hardly be considered a cookie. 

Better than nothing, though. 

Armed with snacks, Ten returns to the living room, only to find Taemin completely passed out on the couch, head rolled back over the top of the couch in a position that is sure to give him a crick in his neck if he stays in it for too long. 

His heart flutters weakly in his chest at the sight. Odd. What a strange way for that bubble of guilt to manifest.

With another long, heavy sigh, Ten puts the snacks down on the coffee table and sits next to Taemin. He removes the cushions and rearranges the human into a more comfortable position, horizontal on the couch, head in Ten’s lap. He’ll give him an hour, and then he’ll wake him up and make him eat and kick him out in time before sunrise.

Just an hour.

.


	3. Taemin

Taemin jolts into consciousness when the front door to his apartment slams shut. He blinks against harsh, bright, morning light and groans as he stretches, his skin feeling tight and dry. At the sound of a jingling of keys followed by the slight gurgling of the electric kettle being turned on, he pulls his pillow over his face and sighs into the cloud of feathers.

The feathers and soothing darkness are abruptly yanked away and Taemin is blinded again by the sun shining directly through his eyelids. “Hey—!”

“It’s the afternoon,” Jongin says from above him. Taemin can tell he is frowning and perhaps even standing with his hands on his impossibly tight hips. At this moment, he sounds very much like Taemin’s father, though of course Taemin won’t mention the comparison aloud because Jongin never likes it when he does.

“It’s the weekend,” Taemin croaks instead, throat as dry as a desert.

“It’s still the afternoon, and we’re meeting the guys for lunch. Get up or we’ll be late.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“C’mon! Mark is excited to introduce us to his boy toy.”

“Boyfriend,” Taemin corrects, slowly rousing.

“Same thing.”

Taemin sits up and squints at Jongin. “Is it? You know, I think maybe I know why your relationships never work out…”

Jongin chucks the pillow into Taemin’s face, which knocks Taemin back onto the mattress. “Whatever. I’m making coffee. You want?”

“Absolutely, thanks.” 

Taemin closes his eyes for a second. His bed is just so comfortable. And it’s Jongin’s fault anyway for knocking him horizontal when he was on his way up. Five more minutes never hurt anybody. Plus, he was having this dream…

It’s slipping away from him now, but he remembers a dark room, a body pressed close to his own, blond hair and a voice as sweet as honey calling his name, telling him to eat this piece of chocolate. Taemin loves chocolate.

“Don’t go back to sleep!” Jongin laughs, shoving at Taemin until he rolls over, until he rolls off the bed and onto unsteady feet. “Please make yourself presentable for the others at lunch.”

Taemin looks down at himself. He’s wearing an old concert tee and no pants. He supposes he should put on pants. 

Jongin points at Taemin’s neck with a little smirk on his face as he’s leaving his bedroom. “Looks like someone had fun last night.”

Taemin smacks his hand over the side of his neck and winces at the tenderness there. With wide eyes, he stumbles into his shoebox-sized bathroom and flicks the light on so that he can see himself in the mirror. A big, purplish hickey is blooming right over his pulse, the color of the bruise vivid over Taemin’s pale skin.

Taemin leans in closer to examine it. “What the fuck?” he whispers to himself, poking at the bruise in fascination. He doesn’t remember how he got it. Had he made out with someone last night? Clearly he hadn’t gone home with anyone...Oh. 

Maybe his dream had been real? And he’d been in that dark room, kissing someone, getting physical…

He does vaguely remember having a drink or two with the band after their set at the bar, and then Baekhyun leaving early. He remembers walking Baekhyun out as an excuse for him to smoke. He remembers looking up at the stars and seeing little rainbows around each pinprick of light. The rest is fuzzy. The rest could be any Friday night.

He cringes at himself. “Taemin, you are not in college anymore,” Taemin hisses to his reflection. “You can’t keep getting blackout drunk and making questionable choices like this. God, idiot.” Getting blackout drunk is the only reasonable explanation he can think of for the hole in his memory of the night, paired with his sensitivity to light this morning—afternoon—and crazy thirst. 

But actually, if his dream happened as he suspects, he could have done much worse than someone who would feed him chocolate after an intense makeout session. Sounds like quite a catch, if the comparison were to Taemin's history of mostly duds.

He wonders if his drunk self had managed to get a number or something and excitedly trips over the legs of his pants on the floor on his way back to his bed, knocking knees-first into his nightstand where his phone is resting, screen up. At being jostled, his phone’s face illuminates, and Taemin sees a couple of notifications. 

One is from Mark in their group chat, reminding them of the address of the Korean barbecue restaurant he’s chosen for lunch.

One is from Jongin from earlier this morning, texting that he’s going to their corner store to get coffee, milk, and toilet paper, and asking if Taemin wanted anything.

The rest are from Instagram on the posts he’d made before the show, and he makes a mental note to respond to some of the comments he’s received later as he plops himself down onto the edge of his mattress. Before he can get too distracted in his social media, he quickly checks his text and call history for any new numbers, but frowns when he finds nothing. 

Well, that was anticlimactic. 

He brings up his camera roll with a sigh, disappointed in his past self. He isn’t shy about snapping pictures and hopes going through photos from last night will jog his memory some more.

Happiness is captured in the images. His frown slowly dissipates and shifts into a small smile that grows wider when he sees a photo he's taken of Mark and Baekhyun near the stage, Mark’s bright grin as he talks to Baekhyun about something that is making his eyes glitter. Taemin swipes past multiple selfies he took with Jongin, the progression of these moving from sober to drunk evident in the blurriness of the photos. 

He pauses when he reaches the two most recently taken photos. In these, Taemin is solo but grinning, the camera angle making it so that he is squished into the left side of the frame, the space next to him empty at the bar. Looking at the pair of photos makes him feel strange, like he’s just stepped into a room and forgotten what he was looking for. 

He deletes them and plugs his phone in to charge. Rising, he peels his shirt from his body and catches a strong whiff of tobacco mixed with something deeper and earthier he can't quite place clinging to the fabric before he drops the piece of clothing to the floor and steps back into the bathroom. 

He remembers how the chocolate tasted on his tongue, bittersweet and smoky, its texture like crushed velvet.

.

The restaurant is packed by the time Taemin and Jongin arrive. Luckily Mark thought to make reservations, and after surveying the rows of tables quickly, Taemin spots Mark’s head popping up like a gopher out of tall grass, easily visible in a field of diners clustered in the back corner. Mark waves them over with enthusiasm.

“You made it!” Mark greets them both, offering hugs. Baekhyun does the same before sliding further down into the booth to make room for Jongin. 

Taemin and Jongin had taken the subway here and one of the trains had been delayed after some traffic signal confusion and Taemin had been subjected to Jongin’s complaints of hunger for fifteen minutes straight until the train began to move again. Taemin's happy to see that their wooden table is already filled with colorful side dishes, bowls of rice, and individual trays of dipping sauces. Heat rises from the griddle in the middle of the table, distorting the air. 

Taemin is by no means a carnivore, but today he's craving the iron tang of red meat like a hole that needs to be filled. His tongue salivates at the thought of all the beef he’s about to consume. 

Speaking of: The man next to Mark stands—nearly a head taller than Mark—with a smile so sunny Taemin feels like a tiny planet being pulled into its orbit. He extends a humongous hand and clasps Taemin’s in a shake, his long fingers dwarfing Taemin’s. 

“Hi! I’m Lucas,” he offers, making significant eye contact and holding Taemin’s gaze in a way that makes his knees wobble. Every single one of Lucas’ features is striking, from his ears to his nose, to his jawline, and just holding his hand makes Taemin warm from the inside out. Then Lucas turns and does the same to Jongin, who doesn't seem to be as affected by Lucas' halo of beauty. “It’s good to finally meet you all.”

“Oh, Mark,” Taemin coos. “He’s gorgeous.”

Lucas’ cheeks go pink like the color has been painted onto his skin by a swift brushstroke. He sits back down and waits for Taemin to squeeze himself into the booth with Jongin and Baekhyun before saying, “I like your scarf.”

Taemin preens. He found the simple black scarf in his sock and underwear drawer after giving up on covering his hickey with concealer while he was getting ready. Styling it like a handkerchief, Taemin wrapped it around his neck and tied it in a small bow, he looked congratulating himself on a cute, creative, and functional look. He felt like a million bucks waltzing out the door this morning in his fuzzy black sweater and scarf combo.

Beside him, Jongin snickers, and Taemin nudges him with a sharp elbow. “Thank you, Lucas,” Taemin says pointedly.

“I hope you don’t mind that we started ordering,” Mark says. “Lucas was hungry.”

“Still am.”

“We’ve got, like, one of everything coming, I think,” Baekhyun laughs. “Just went down the menu.”

Jongin shrugs off his leather jacket and pushes up the sleeves of his long tee, the glint in his eyes similar to that of a boxer about to enter a ring. “Oh? Last one standing?”

_ Last one standing _ is a dumb game they’ve been playing since college where the person who takes the last bite, the last drink—the last whatever—doesn’t have to pay their portion of the bill. Jongin, whose appetite can be as voracious as a black hole, usually comes out on top, and it’s nostalgia more than anything else that guilts the others into playing with him. 

This time, before anyone can even groan in protest, Lucas’ eyes light up at the challenge and he says, “Oh! Mark was telling me about this! I’ll play!”

Jongin hesitates, blinking, then staring. Taemin can tell he’s sizing Lucas up while Lucas beams at him like a puppy waiting for a treat. Then Jongin smirks. “Alright. You’re on.”

.

Three platters of meat later, Taemin swallows a tiny burp as he pats his lips with a napkin, sufficiently stuffed, his beef craving satisfied. Jongin and Lucas order another round.

“Please, no more…” Baekhyun moans from his corner, sunken into the booth like a melted gummy bear. He rubs his noticeably rounded belly in a self-soothing sort of manner.

“I’m kind of horrified and fascinated,” Taemin says.

“You would be,” Baekhyun accuses.

“Lucas once ate like twenty hot dogs in one sitting,” Mark says cheerfully. “Jongin, you may have met your match.”

“I’ll never give up, or surrender,” Jongin declares around a mouthful of meat.

Lucas barely lets his beef kiss the griddle between them before scooping it up into his mouth, giggling. “I could do this all day.”

“Please don’t,” Baekhyun insists.

On platter four, Baekhyun bows out, claiming other social responsibilities—he’s supposed to meet Jongdae and his wife for dinner, though he loudly proclaims he’s not sure how he’s going to stuff one more bite of anything into his mouth when he does. On platter five, the smoke from the griddle is starting to get to Taemin, the air too stuffy and warm. Jongin and Lucas have both slowed down, though neither hint at stopping. Taemin thinks it’s like watching two battering rams knocking each other out in slow motion.

He sits back in his seat, pushing up his sleeves and tugging at his scarf. Across from him, Mark’s eyes bug out of his head. 

“Woah, man! What’s that?” He points at Taemin’s neck. “Was that, like, a giant-ass hickey?”

Taemin jolts and quickly fixes the accessory to cover up the bruise again. “So what if it was?” Taemin bristles.

“Let me see that beast!”

“No!”

“It’s huge.”

“I know, that’s why I’m covering it up!”

“It’s just us at the table, dude,” Mark pleads in the best way he knows how, giving him soft eyes and pouty lips. “C’mon.  _ Please _ ?”

Taemin rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Fine.” He's always given in easily, and today is no different. He unknots the scarf and whips it off his neck, baring the hickey for all to see.

“Ah!” Mark shouts and laughs at the same time. “It’s like you got attacked by a vacuum!”

Lucas finishes shoveling another bite of beef into his mouth and swallows before adding, “Or a vampire. Heh.”

“Did he have big fish lips, or something?” Mark asks. He nibbles on a piece of radish kimchi while Jongin chokes on a laugh.

“No,” Taemin says. “Well, he might have. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember? Damn. That sucks.” Mark whistles through his teeth in sympathy.

Lucas leans across Mark and narrows his eyes at Taemin, the intensity of his gaze making Taemin squirm. “It definitely wasn’t a vampire, right?” Lucas asks.

Taemin cocks his head in confusion. He doesn’t know Lucas well enough to gauge if he’s being serious or just messing with him. “I think I would know if I got attacked by a vampire,” he says slowly. “Especially since, I don't know, vampires  _ aren’t real _ .”

“You know, a vampire dies every time you say that.”

“Pretty sure that’s fairies,” Jongin quips.

Lucas’ eyes widen like he’s just realized something very important. “Oh, is it? Maybe you’re right…” Then he goes back to eating.

And Jongin’s chopsticks clang against his plate, the equivalent of throwing in the towel. He could probably use a towel right now, for the sweat gathering at his hairline and temples. He is giving off the vibe of a sausage about to pop out of its casing. “I’m done,” he pants. “I can’t eat another bite. How do you do it?”

“Really fast metabolism and ritual sacrifices,” Lucas says.

Jongin nods. “Gotta get on that shit.”

“That means you win, baby,” Mark says sweetly, reaching over to kiss Lucas on the cheek.

“I demand a rematch,” Jongin says. “But give me like a month to recover.”

“It would be my pleasure and honor.” Lucas bows his head.

As his friends banter and make plans for a rematch, Taemin drags his fingers over the scarf that covers the bruise on his neck, imagining fangs piercing through his skin, and the sharp prick of pain that accompanies this image is so visceral that he checks the pads of his fingers for blood.

There's nothing, of course, just clean skin. But Lucas' innocent teasing opens up a door inside of his mind.

.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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